poemeleon

Boy Holding a Box of a Boy and his Horse: A Russian Doll Poem

1. Sunlight

I am destined on an impossible errand.
The boy who holds me traces lines, the not quite green
of underwater coral that’s my horse’s color,
calls me Ahmed, out of his favorite storybook.
Sometimes I tire of always being
about to begin, never about to land.
Destination’s a circle and the citrus sun
bears down without rest. The cool grass
is what I miss, and then the boy whispers
let’s find a lake of cool water, and snap!
the scene changes. I’m floating on my back,
periwinkle, the horse knee-locked in slumber.

2. Shadows

My gauge is pre-set. I go back to dreaming
about the ride that never ends, clicking
of hooves, on, on, my friend, the replicated
bobbing until the speed works up to seamless
wonder, the only sound pounding: horse heart,
strengthening the legs. The green shadows keep
changing. I move at speeds slower than the sun
and barely perceive that I’m moving.

3. Color

He peers at me shrinking and perfect and wonders
who are you, carries me from room to room.
The curtains change, the view, but that’s not me,
that’s everything else, changing around me.
Green is green, even in the absence of light.

4. Darkness

So many motions, impossible to keep straight.
Imagine, the movements of space! The Lord’s breath,
calling planets, gases, rock from emptiness
into being, his word the beginning.

5. Inside the Darkness

Set in motion, I finally have my mission.
The boy opens the final lid and whispers
starlight: captured, held and then returned.

careful
careful
careful

the archer tucked atop the
lime
horse
jaunts over the patch of crab
grass,

so we can sing songs
of
old warriors, old
creatures, old
forces

Balthasar's Box

Wrapped in royal purple silk,
the boldly delicate box rode ever westward
as the magi followed the star that stopped over Bethlehem.
Balthasar had carried frankincense for the holy, deep in the
tooled leather case draped across his camel's saddle.
The box was emptied into the gold spun icon of Melchior's
jewel box - fragrant incense for the priest of priests.
Balthasar bartered the box for fresh dates to share with Gaspar
on the round about journey home as they avoided Herod and
the sycophants of his court.
The date seller buried the box, carefully wrapped in kidskin,
under the hearth stone of his mud floored dwelling,
it's mystery lost to the present until,
once again, war opened the soul and earth of this place
and turned the soil over.
The miracle of the intact box of Balthasar sprang into the sunlight
to begin once more the journey,
hand to hand,
horse back to horseless carriage,
dhow to steamship,
Constantinople to Los Angeles, onward,
treasure shop to junk shop, mystery to possibility,
inspiration looses imagination,
Balthasar's Box becomes the lyric of modern psalm.

We Are Riding Once More


The great Khan is dead
and Persia is conquered
the Abbasids fallen as
Mongol armies murdered
over 2 million
burned our libraries
turned our Mosques into temples

But we remaining are strong
for we fled from the conquerors
into the hills of our homeland
and have been rewarded
with ample game
by the grace of Allah
we will hunt and feast

This is not race you can win, little girl, however determined you are.
Your horse is tiring, leading slow. Your hands tighten on his bridle,
and in his hair, your feet digging into his sides. Are they that close
behind you, that you dare not - no, will not - stop? For a drink,
a rest, a breath. You barely feel the wind in your hair, child,
as you run. What do you keep locked tight within your breast
and hidden among your arrows? What do you risk your life for
to stay safe?

They'll find you eventually, search your tracks in the grass,
green and mud. Spring is not the time to escape,
to slip your guards, to climb the castle walls. But you
know the price, little girl,
are aware of the consequence
if they find you,
and bring you home.

I can - and will - wish you luck, only,
my blessing, and your luck.

Archer


Archer perched astride your horse
To whence has your arrow flown?
Carrying a letter in lieu of shouts grown hoarse
Flying across a green lawn freshly mown
Into a window set high in a house
The fastest delivery in the days before morse?
Sent after deer fleeing through gorse
Landing where this springs’ seeds are sown?
Did your shaft pierce the stag’s throat
While he leapt as nimbly as a goat
O’er the stream gurgling so merrily
Through gracious lands on its way to the sea?
Or are you an assassin on the job
Sent out to avenge the theft of a cob
From lands on a lake where punts bob
The only mare of maiden who will sob.
Perhaps you charge upon a battlefield
Harrying the enemy’s flank that they might yield
Darting amongst infantry heavily laden
Heading towards a tent wherein lies a maiden
Kidnapped from her ancestral home
For refusing to marry a gnome.
Where are you headed, archer horseman?
Is there a maid you bedded, of another man?
And now he has thrust you eternally damned
From all the fields that constitute his lands.
Archer, archer, speak to me
Tell me your story that all might see
Where it is your arrow went
To see how its dashing flight was spent.